


weep, little lion man

by firefliesandstarlight



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geraskier, I’m always looking to improve :D, M/M, canon AU, canonverse, comments and kudos greatly appreciated, did I tag Geralt and yen and ciri and roach even though I only mention them? yes, episode 6 rare species, idk what else to tag uh, perhaps while procrastinating my actual wip ahaha, there is no explanation for jaskier getting off the mountain so I simply wrote one, this is a jaskier-centric fic and I Am Not Ashamed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefliesandstarlight/pseuds/firefliesandstarlight
Summary: faster than Jaskier can say “fuck,” he finds himself walking down a mountain alone, leaving a seething Geralt behind.aka there was no explanation for how Jaskier got off the mountain after episode 6 “rare species” and I saw a couple posts about it so I wrote one
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 150





	weep, little lion man

**Author's Note:**

> ~~get it? like dande _lion_? i think i'm funny~~

The trip down the mountain was long. 

Weeds tangled with roots in the underbrush. There is nothing living, nothing more monumental than a bug, for what seems like miles. 

Trees stretched out towards the sky, paper-thin and intimidatingly robust all at once. At night, their shadows twisted together on the ground, a pattern of nightmares and wandering sorrow. 

But Jaskier could not find it in himself to be afraid. 

There are so many nightmares that seem like harmless dreams, now. Now that he’s got real problems, real dangers. 

Real nightmares. 

Every bit of food and shelter he’d brought— or Geralt had brought, anyway,— was still at the camp he hadn’t bothered to stop at. 

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Geralt had left. 

Jaskier told himself he didn’t care. He did his best to ignore the thirst coating his throat and the incessant hunger of his stomach. 

He was beginning to lose track of the days. His clothes, once so new and shiny (or at least, appearing that way,) were now marred with mud and twigs and tiny tears along the seams. He was getting used to using rocks for pillows. 

When Yennefer had walked into that tavern, however long ago it was, Jaskier knew it was all going to go to shit. 

He just didn’t think he’d end up walking back down the mountain alone, is all. 

But it’s fine. 

It’s fine. 

Yeah. 

Completely fine. 

In the evenings, every evening, mist gathered at Jaskier’s feet, around the bases of trees, over the ground. The mist was really quite lovely, and rather soft, but it managed to obscure the many dips and divots littering the mountain path. 

If Jaskier was being honest, (always honest, always honest;  _ shall we head off to the coast, then, my love? _ ) path was a generous term. 

It was really more of a crooked slash in the ground that someone had really, really, hoped would become a path, someday. 

And the crooked slash was determined to trap his feet and twist his ankle. But what’s one more throbbing pain to endure?

As days wore on and his thoughts grew heavier, Jaskier found himself not watching what was ahead, but instead looking down at his feet. 

A week ago, he might have worried about the inevitable neck cramp. Now, he was just thankful for the distraction of the monotony of footsteps. Very predictable, footsteps are. One foot, then the other, again and again. Refreshing. 

There was a part of Jaskier, a rather large part, that couldn’t help but sing. Geralt or no Geralt, he needed a song, because sooner or later, he would need money. 

“ _ I’ll scream that it’s not fair, it’s like you’ve gone off to the coast _ ,” he muttered, kicking at an unfortunate stone. “ _ Left me behind just standing there, pretending not to see your ghost _ .” He could almost hear Geralt telling him that all good songs rhymed. 

But there was a small part of him that yearned for a heavy silence, and that was the part of him that won out, in the end. 

Jaskier’s thoughts swarmed around in his brain, presenting him with image after image of Geralt, of Yen, of Ciri. 

He might see Yennefer again, he reckoned. If he wanted to, he could find a way to run into Ciri. 

But he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to see Geralt again. Not anytime soon, anyway. 

There was a rather large hole in his chest, after all, and Geralt was the one who’d put it there. 

“ _ Never got any fucking directions, and so now I’m wandering down a fucking mountain, and I’m really fucking hungry, and there’s no fucking end in fucking sight _ ,” seemed to be Jaskier’s new hit single. He’d sing it to himself when the sun was low and his spirits were sinking with it, on nights when his story ending with him swan diving off a mountain seemed more likely to him than ever arriving anywhere called ‘home’ did. 

There were nights when the mist would set in early, and Jaskier would find himself lost. 

It was then that he would wonder, as he sat at the base of a tree, one hand on his lute, if he really hated Geralt at all. 

Every time, he told himself he did. 

And every time, the hole in his chest would whisper, “ _ but you love him. _ ” 

_ I do.  _

“ _ You would die for him. _ ” 

_ I have _ . 

He fell asleep, on one of those nights, and when he woke up, he had no idea where he was. 

~~

Jaskier knew, without a doubt, that the trees and underbrush and nothingness had begun to look the same a while back. He had been keeping a hesitant tally in the back of his mind, and he was pretty sure that it had been about three days, maybe four. 

But on the morning of the fourth— or was it the fifth?— day, Jaskier knew that he was utterly and completely lost. 

“Mountains. Mountains are tall, mountains go up. To get off mountains, one must go down,” Jaskier reasoned. He spun slowly in a circle, arms wrapped around his lute protectively. “So I must simply go down.” 

He looked behind him, then ahead. Or did he look left and right? 

“Ah. Well, fuck.” 

There were several trees growing sideways, blown aside in a windstorm, pointing ahead of him. But Jaskier wasn’t sure if trees on mountains grew in the direction of the slope, or opposite, to counteract any downward pull. He wasn’t even sure if he’d ever known the answer to that. 

So he jumped. 

Just once, in place. Holding onto his lute like it was an apple and he was Roach. 

And he purposefully did not stick the landing. 

Jaskier went tumbling down. 

He tucked in his elbows and hugged his lute to his chest, rolling and rolling and rolling down the mountain. He came to a stop, softer than he expected, against a tree trunk. 

First order of business was to make sure his lute was alright. Without it, what was he? A lute-less bard? Impossible. 

“Darling, are you okay?” Jaskier held his lute up to the sunlight, appraising any damage. As far as he could tell, there was none, but then he spotted it. A small scratch along the side of the body, invisible unless one was to really look for it. A scratch is a scratch, though, and Jaskier already felt guilty. 

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, promise.” Jaskier slung the lute over his shoulder, and muttered to himself, “Talking to the lute now, I see. Good going, mate.” 

But despite the scratch on his lute and the smarting bruises on his, well, everywhere, Jaskier set off again, renewed. He knew which way was down, and he could still make out a sort of path in the dirt, and there was hope that he wouldn’t die on this fucking mountain, after all. 

~~

When he finally made it back to the little village at the base of the mountain, his first stop was the tavern. He had a hundred crowns, and he would be damned if he didn’t spend at least half of them on some good old fashioned ale. 

Ale did not break one’s heart, but it did the necessary job of numbing it, and that is just what Jaskier needed.

The tavern was stuffed full of patrons. Jaskier sort of figured that he could go in, have his drink, and maybe play a bit for another round. 

He stumbled over the threshold, and when the first patron laid eyes on him, they drew their sword. 

Nearly every other patron followed suit, and the ones that didn’t either screamed or fainted. 

Faced with a tavern-full of sword wielding folks quite clearly willing to run him through, Jaskier raised his hands in surrender. 

“Erm, my bad? I’m really just hungry, I’ve got coin, see?” Jaskier reached for the pouch on his hip, and the swords bristled. “Oh! No! Okay! You don’t like that! Swear to Melitele, I just wanted some ale. I’ve been on that fucking mountain for days, and—”

“The mountain?” One of the swords lowered. “Wait a second, you’re not…” 

“He was with the mountain party!” Someone cried, and the swords all disappeared into sheaths, replaced by loud chatter. 

“The one that never came back!”

“With the sorceress and the witcher?” 

“Yeah, I remember them! From a week back!” 

“No wonder he’s so dirty.” 

With a pang, Jaskier dismissed the surfacing memory of the time Geralt came back from a hunt, covered in Selkimore guts, and was met with a tavern’s reaction similar to this one. God, he was going to miss waiting for Geralt, though he also knew he’d never really stop. 

And then the weight of the patron’s comments began to sink in. 

“Wait, wait, wait. Wait.” Nobody quieted. If anything, the conversation grew louder. “Wait!”

A couple people stopped and turned to stare at Jaskier. Like a train of dominos, others followed their lead, and soon, Jaskier had the attention of the whole tavern again. 

“They never came back?” His voice was quiet, but his grief felt like it was going to smear him into the floor. 

He knew Geralt was fine. He had no doubts about the Witcher’s capabilities. And Yen had probably spun a portal and left after Geralt had, well… 

But he had been desperately holding onto a slim hope that Geralt might, just might, have come back to this village to wait for him. To see him. To apologize. 

Apparently Jaskier hadn’t realized just how slim that hope was. 

Someone shrugged, and then the whole tavern was off again, chattering away as though Jaskier didn’t exist. 

Jaskier, no longer interested in ale, turned and left the tavern. He decided he’d find a well somewhere, steal some water to quench his thirst. There was bound to be a river somewhere where he could wash himself and his clothes. He still had his lute, so he would probably be able to earn some coin, one way or another. 

And slowly, Jaskier could see his life rebuilding, a path forward making itself clear. He was still The White Wolf’s Bard— nobody had to know about him and Geralt, and he knew Geralt wouldn’t go around volunteering that information,— and he could still use that to his advantage. 

Yeah, Jaskier’s life was rebuilding. There was a path. But it sure as hell felt like he was still lost on that mountain. 

**Author's Note:**

> lyrics from “welly boots” by the amazing devil 
> 
> ty for reading! comments n kudos appreciated <3


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